


Taking Root

by seatbeltdrivein



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-02
Updated: 2011-01-02
Packaged: 2017-10-14 08:21:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/147266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seatbeltdrivein/pseuds/seatbeltdrivein
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[Post-manga] The battle is over and Olivier is desperate to get out of Central before she becomes too comfortable. Unfortunately, she has to do something about that house before she goes. What better way of ridding herself of the unwanted property than to hand it over to the man she'd promised it to before the coup? [Written for fma_fuh_q's Roy round over on LJ]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Taking Root

Sometimes Olivier liked to sit on the balcony and smoke, just to watch the thin stream of it spiral from the end of the cigarette and disappear into the air around her. If the night was particularly nice, she'd get through an entire pack in one sitting, content for the moment with watching life pass by. The opportunity to sit still was such a rare luxury that she knew better than waste it.

"It's getting late," Miles said.

"Dismissed," she answered, waving him away with her free hand. "Close the door behind you, Major. I'll expect to see you at the station on the morning of our departure."

"Ma'am." Miles saluted and backed out of the room. It amazed her, how formal he still was, her old friend. The war was over, reconstruction underway, and Miles still acted like they hadn't been to Hell and back together. Shaking her head, Olivier snubbed the end of the cigarette against the balcony railing, stretching her arms over her head, tense muscles pulling taut for a moment before finally relaxing for what felt like the first time in decades.

Somewhere in the distance, bells tolled the hour. Olivier listened to the ringing, mind in a haze, and settled back into her chair. Was it one in the morning? Midnight? Earlier or later, she couldn't tell. It felt like she'd been sitting for hours in that exact spot and she had no plan to move until the urge overtook her. It was, she thought, a bit like being a statue.

Perhaps she should leave Central, she mused, before her feet could take root and tie her there against her will.

*

Alchemy could only do so much for Central Headquarters. When Olivier arrived in the morning, her brother was already there, pounding the rock and rubble into something passable as a building, the esteemed Flame Alchemist directing him. He was still blind. That much was obvious from the way the corners of his mouth were drawn down into a permanent, uncharacteristic scowl, the way his eyes darted in every direction as though trying desperately to see anything despite the way his hand pointed firmly, surely to the wreckage before him.

"Mustang," she greeted loudly, allowing the man a moment to adjust to her presence, a small mercy. "Where have your eyes disappeared to?"

Mustang's scowl deepened. "Lieutenant Hawkeye was called out to Lior," he said. "Your brother is assisting me."

Unbidden, Olivier's eyes fell to her brother, still working gleefully in the ruins of the city. "So I see. Perhaps, if you can spare a moment, you might find it in yourself to help me?"

"I'm sure there must be someone available actually capable of helping you, Major General," he said dryly. "Lieutenant Ross is—"

"I'm not asking for your pets," she said. "I'm asking for you."

Mustang actually _looked_ at her after that, his expression intense enough that she very nearly forgot he couldn't see her. "All right," he said finally as the grave set of his features broke into something much more amused. He held out a hand in her direction, wiggling his fingers. "But you'll have to hold my hand. You see, I'm actually blind."

Olivier wrinkled her nose in disgust, but let him twine his fingers in hers nonetheless. "Don't get the wrong idea," she warned.

"I would never," Mustang swore, grinning like a child.

"You disgust me, after all," she added. "Never worked a day in your life, you pampered city boy." She scoffed. Mustang let out a muffled snort, and she tightened her grip on his hand, squeezing hard enough that it was sure to hurt.

"Of course," he soothed. "I live a life of luxury and fine wines. Women, too," he added.

Olivier could feel her nostrils flaring and had to forcibly restrain herself from going upside his head. He was blind and practically lame for as useless as he was. Words were all he had. "Mind your tongue," she said mildly, and was pleased when she heard his teeth click together in response.

"So what was it?" he asked after a moment. Mustang was beginning to look disconcerted, his eyebrows furrowed and his head angled in a strange way, as though he was trying to literally _hear_ where they were going. "I honestly can't imagine what you need me for."

Olivier didn't walk any faster or slower, just kept her grip on Mustang's hand and led him where she wanted him. "You remember, before the coup?" she asked. "I told you I would leave you my home."

"If you died," he said. "Yes, I remember."

"Well," she continued, "I'm leaving you my home."

Mustang stumbled a bit then, and she had to tighten her grip again and stand still while he caught himself, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. "But you aren't dead," he pointed out.

"I've noticed."

"Alex might take offense."

"He lost all rights to the house," Olivier said. "It's mine, and I'll do with it what I like." Mustang was steady again, so she gave his hand a gentle tug and began to walk again.

"Why?" he asked finally.

"Because I don't need it," she answered. "I only ever intended it to be used during the coup." She only bothered to get her family out of the country, but some things were best left unsaid. "Once reconstruction is over, I'll be returning to Briggs, and I have no intentions of ever coming back here unless it's to be handed the title of Fuhrer."

"Then no," Mustang said, cracking a grin, "I don't suppose you'll ever be coming back."

"Insolent whelp," she growled, and when she clenched her hand down this time, Mustang actually winced. "Stop your yapping when I'm speaking!"

"Fine, fine!" Mustang relented. She eased her grip and he let out a sigh of relief. "You're awfully difficult."

"Well, you're awfully stupid, but I haven't been complaining," she snapped. "Now, as I was saying, I have no need for the house."

"I don't even see how you can call it a house," Mustang said. "Manor, at the very least. Castle wouldn't be too much of a stretch."

"Stop interrupting, Mustang."

"Hm."

"I'm leaving it to you," she finished. They were finally at the house, the large building having somehow sustained no damage at all during the battle. She tugged him up the walkway, through the front gates, and toward the front steps. "I will, of course, remain here for the duration of the reconstruction, and my men will come and go as needed."

"Of course."

Up the steps, Mustang hobbling awkwardly and Olivier letting him loop an arm around her waist to keep his balance. She was feeling particularly magnanimous, so she pretended not to notice when his hand dipped a little too low to be natural, resting against her bottom. Blind, she reminded herself as they moved together slowly up the steps. Blind and lame.

"You're welcome to stay here as well," she added once they'd managed the climb. "It's come to my attention that your home was destroyed."

"I suppose that's what I get for living so close to HQ," Mustang muttered. "All those mornings of sleeping late, and now I have to wake up an hour earlier."

"Rising early is a good practice."

"Yes mother," he sniped, "I'm well aware."

Olivier was used to seeing awe on the faces of guests when they first stepped into the Armstrong family's home, eyes wide and mouths open at the sheer size and luxurious décor. Mustang could do none of those things, blinded as he was, and she couldn't help but feel vaguely disappointed. Certainly, he'd seen the interior before, but that didn't make it any less impressive.

It was his now, she realized, and he couldn't even appreciate it. "Where is your Stone?" she asked. "I'd assumed you were planning on curing yourself." She led him to the sitting room and guided him into her father's high backed chair with a patience she rarely found herself in possession of.

"That's the plan," he said, relaxing. "But Lieutenant Havoc hasn't arrived yet. His train doesn't come for another two days."

"And?" She raised her eyebrows at him before remembering, once again, that he didn't have the sight to appreciate her skepticism. "I don't see what that has to do with anything."

"His injuries come first," Mustang said simply, and Olivier thought, _You overly emotional fool._ Survival of the fittest was something the military's darling Flame had never understood.

"I hope there's enough to fix you after your subordinate's been healed."

"Me too," Mustang said, and his entire body seemed to slump at the thought. Olivier barely resisted the urge to roll her eyes.

"I have papers," she said, clearing her throat. "In order to claim ownership, you'll need to sign."

"And you couldn't wait until I could actually read the papers?" he asked, amused. "Why Major General, if I didn't know better, I'd think you didn't want me able to read them!"

"Well, then it's a good thing you know better," she answered stiffly. "I'll be back in a moment." She left him in the sitting room, still grinning to himself, and went to the office to fetch the papers her family's attorney had drawn up. Mustang was trying her patience. She rubbed her temples, slowly relaxing her clenched jaw, and decided a drink was in order.

Maybe a _few_ drinks, she thought, and grabbed an entire bottle of gin and two glasses before making her way back to the sitting room. If she was to talk business with that no-good alchemist, then she'd need something to temper her mind so she didn't get sick of him and skewer the bastard.

Mustang perked up at the sound of the glasses being set on the table, followed quickly by the rush of pouring liquid. "Drinks?" he asked, then, "gin. I smell gin, don't I?"

Olivier hummed, almost impressed. "I'm going to assume your lack of vision has improved your senses rather than that you're an alcoholic. Yes, it's gin."

"Much appreciated," he murmured, taking the glass when she handed it over and picked up one of his hands to guide it. Mustang didn't hesitate at all, just put his lips to the glass and gulped.

"It's meant to be savored," she reprimanded.

"It's a drink," he said, "so I'm drinking it. Don't tell me how to drink my own drink."

"Someone needs to remind you how to act in civilized company," Olivier sniffed.

Mustang snorted. "Am I in civilized company? I wasn't aware. Do give my apologies to our silent guest."

"Don't push me, Mustang," Olivier growled. Before she could just lose it and strangle the smug little shit, she tossed back her drink, draining the glass in one large gulp.

"That's the spirit," Mustang said, leaning over to pat her knee. His aim was off, though, and he wound up patting her crotch instead. It was impossible to tell whether he'd done it on purpose or not, so Olivier settled for discretely shifting her chair away.

Drinking on its own is a wonderful thing. Olivier had more than a little experience with that. There wasn't a great deal of leisure activities to take part in up in the North, so she took what she could on her rare moments of inactivity. But drinking, she should know, wasn't always a good idea. Pity she didn't remember that _before_ the room started spinning.

Mustang was slumped in her father's chair, his glass empty—again. They'd been drinking long enough that colors had stopped being separate things and were more a messy blend, whirling together in some bizarre rainbow of inebriation. Mustang made a vague motion in her direction, and Olivier's mind shrieked something, an alarm. Bastard was probably trying to steal her drink. She wouldn't put it past him.

"Stay over there," she hissed, the words blurring together. Olivier clutched her (empty) glass to her chest and tried to scoot her chair away. Mustang made a face like a hurt puppy and swung his arm in her direction, muttering something under his breath.

After a few tries, he finally managed to get out, "fill my glass," or some mutation of the phrase. Olivier understood it well enough that she was actually sitting forward to grab the bottle before the tiny sober corner of her mind cleared its throat and informed her that perhaps they might want to stop?

"No," she said. Mustang continued looking like a kicked dog. Olivier ignored him, choosing instead to squint in the general direction of the clock and try to make sense of the numbers floating on its face. She managed to realize that it was probably late, the time having disappeared somewhere in the bottom of the bottle. "Bed," she said, clearing her throat. Mustang began looking interested.

"Cn't," he slurred, flailing his arms in her direction. "Blind!"

Oh, that's right. Mustang was blind and useless. How could she have forgotten? Olivier managed to get on her feet and grab one of his arms, tugging him up onto his, only the motion somehow got confused. Rather than standing, Mustang ended up perched on the edge of the chair, both of his arms gripped tight in her hands and his face planted right in her bosom. Olivier let out a frustrated, incoherent shriek and shoved him back on his ass.

"Useless," she grumbled, repeating the word until she felt like he understood that she was referring to _him_. Then, for good measure, she repeated it once more.

"Mm," Mustang said, and curled his legs up onto the seat of the chair.

"Get off," Olivier barked. "Get your feet off the chair!"

Yelling took too much effort. Olivier was dead on her feet, her eyelids suddenly too heavy to keep open. "Bed," she said again. This time, Mustang didn't look remotely interested. Olivier knew they couldn't sleep in the sitting room, though she couldn't exactly say why, and she knew Mustang wasn't about to get up and walk up the stairs. With the force of years of physical training, Olivier grabbed Mustang's arm again and crouched down, pulling him onto her back and letting his arms rest loosely around her shoulders. When she stood straight again, the man let out a shrill, drunken giggle, mumbling something about the room moving before conking out on her shoulder. Taking in a deep breath and praying to whatever god would listen that the world would hold still long enough to make it to the bedroom, Olivier trudged to the stairs.

Hopefully, Mustang wouldn't start drooling on her shoulder.

*

Olivier woke up to sun blinding her. She'd left the curtains open? She made an attempt to sit up, but there was an arm around her waist. Freezing, she let herself go slack on the bed. There was an _arm_ around her _waist_ in her _bed_. Arms, as a general rule, were attached to _people._

There was a _person_ in her bed, and oh god, how had that even happened?

The day before, what had she done? Olivier closed her eyes, remembered going to the main reconstruction site, bringing Mustang to sign the papers, getting the gin—

Oh. Oh god.

Olivier opened her eyes and rolled onto her side, preparing to face what she already knew was waiting. Mustang was still asleep, but he seemed pleased with the movement, crushing her to him the moment she went still. Olivier fumed, her face buried in his neck.

She was still wearing her pants. Granted, that seemed to be all she was wearing, judging by the way her bare breasts were squashed to that bastard's chest, but wearing pants meant they hadn't done anything untoward. Well, anything _too_ untoward. Mustang was nearly fully clothed, still in the white button up and slacks he'd worn the day before. Apparently, she hadn't been patient enough to do more than pull off his shoes and unbutton his shirt.

A sudden shifting alerted her that Mustang was starting to wake. She tried to discretely extract herself from his arms, but the motion caused him to latch tighter, which brought Olivier's thigh in direct contact with something very hard and very warm.

Blind, she tried to remember desperately, he's blind and lame.

…He was also rutting against her thigh, and that was just not on.

"Mustang," Olivier said directly into the man's neck. "I think it's time you wake up." Patience, she told herself. She just had to be patient and not kill him. Later, she could go find some low ranking officers to torture, but for now, she just had to _breathe._

It felt like an eternity passed before Mustang finally woke, tensing briefly and pulling away just enough that Olivier could look him in the eye, an inch between them. "Major General?" he asked, voice a morning husk.

"Yes," answered tightly.

"What're you doing here?"

That tore it. "What am _I_ doing here?" she echoed. "Mustang, you are in _my bed_!"

The man had the audacity to look surprised. "Am I?"

"Where the hell else would you be? Does this look like—"

"It doesn't really look like anything," he interrupted. Right, he was blind. How did she keep forgetting that?

"Well, that's where you are," she continued. "Now let go of me."

"I'm not holding you," he said, sounding confused.

"Move, then," she insisted. "You're in my way."

Mustang sighed and rolled away, almost rolling clear off the side of the bed. Olivier managed to catch him before he did, which just ended up with her bare chest splayed over him. "I thought you wanted me to go," he said, words dripping with barely restrained amusement. "Or is this a case of the lady protesting too much?"

Olivier opened her mouth and immediately closed it again, wishing for all her mind that the man had his vision back just so he could see the look of pure disgust on her face. Because that's what it was. Disgust. _Absolute_ disgust, in fact.

Absolute and _undeniable_ disgust.

"You," she said heatedly, "are a complete pig!"

"You're awfully mean to me."

"Because you're an idiot!" she howled, thumping her fist on his chest. He let out a pained wheeze that quickly turned to laughter, his whole body wracking with it.

"It's too early," he managed to get out between laughs, "to be dealing with you!"

Olivier let out huff and rolled off his chest, settling back on the other side of the bed and wrenching the sheets around her body. "Fine," she spat. "I'm going back to sleep. Shut your mouth or I'll cut your tongue out."

And believe it or not, Mustang actually managed to be quiet.

*

When Olivier woke the second time, she felt refreshed and surprisingly relaxed. Even better, there was no mystery arm pulling her flush against the idiot's body. She held her eyes open for a moment, feeling content, before curiosity finally got the better of her. Had Mustang left after all? She rolled over to see that no, he hadn't left. Had, in fact, gone to sleep in the position she'd left him in, laid out on his back, one arm under the back of his head and the other resting low on his stomach, fingers splayed over a trail of fine black hair creeping under the waistband of his pants.

Not that she was _looking_ , or anything.

As though her sight alone had weight, Mustang's eyes fluttered open, both hands reaching up and stretching toward the headboard. He didn't say anything, just stared blankly at the ceiling. He was waiting for her, she realized.

"Mustang," Olivier said, pretending her eyes weren't riveted with the sight of his bare stomach.

"Olivier," he responded, saying her name for the first time. A slip of the tongue, no doubt. "Good morning."

"Afternoon," she corrected after taking a glance at the clock on the wall. "It's almost one."

"One? That's late," he observed, and Olivier choked back the _no shit_ resting on the tip of her tongue in favor of something more pleasant.

"How do you like the house?" It was his now, after all.

Mustang looked momentarily surprised. "It's very nice. Comfortable," he said. He certainly looked comfortable in her bed, even more than he had in the old chair in the sitting room. Mustang had the appearance of nobility. The house fit him as well as he fit it, and Olivier had never been able to say the same for herself.

"Wonderful," she said. "I'll send the papers to my attorney." It was well past time to get up. One o'clock, she thought with disgust as she sat up. How could she have slept so late? She hadn't even believed it was possible.

Mustang didn't want her to move, it seemed. She'd barely sat up before he was rolling over to her side of the bed, reaching blindly until he managed to get one arm around her waist. He rested his face on her thigh and held her in place, expression strangely petulant.

When he kept his mouth shut, Mustang was almost bearable. Olivier didn't feel the need to speak, instead choosing to stare down at the man, at the stubborn set of his jaw. They were in bed together. It was only natural that they have thoughts, but was there any point in entertaining them?

His hand brushed her bare stomach, nudging the bottom of her breasts, and Olivier thought, _Why not?_

"Mustang," she said, tugging him up, letting him scrabble for her shoulders and stare blindly at her. "If you can behave yourself, I'll let you stay." She didn't have to explain what it would mean to stay. He opened his mouth to agree, but she quickly stifled whatever he was about to say with her hand, watching his brow wrinkle with confusion. "Behave," she repeated, and moved her hand to replace it with her mouth.

It was a passing fancy, nothing more. She could kiss him like this and it didn't have to mean anything. Just because the feel of his lips moving so easily against her own stirred a startlingly intense heat between her legs didn't have to mean there was anything between them.

This could happen, she assured herself, without tying her to this city, this house. She wouldn't take root for him or for this.

"I can feel the wheels turning in your head," he said, letting his forehead rest against hers. "Do try to enjoy yourself, General."

"Keep your mouth closed and I just might," she returned, pushing his shirt off his shoulders and running her hands down the smooth expanse of his back. It had been so long. Of course it would feel this intense. When had the last time been…?

It didn't matter. One of his hands was cupping her breast, squeezing, and she could feel how wet she was, her thighs clenching unconsciously just to have more of the feeling. Mustang chuckled, pressing a kiss to her shoulder. All she could think was lower, move your mouth lower, and when he finally did, teeth playing gently at her nipple, squeezing and sucking and burning her inside and out, she barely noticed his free hand playing at the zip of her pants, drawing it open.

He pulled back, wiping his mouth. She wanted to curse at him, to grab his hair and shove his mouth back down, but then his hands were at her hips, urging her up and drawing her pants and military-issued underwear off, tugging until she was bare on the bed and the clothes were somewhere on the floor, tossed aside. He moved to spread her legs, but she smacked him on the side of his arm. "Your pants," she said, her voice strangely low. "Take them off. Now."

Mustang had that intense expression on his face again, but rather than unnerving her, it just made her impatient, made her want to demand that he move and move _now_. Mustang finally grinned and said, "Yes, ma'am," before fumbling to find his zip, regaining his momentum once he found it. He made a show of it, drawing the zip down slowly and waggling his eyebrows at her. She was thankful he couldn't see her. It wouldn't do to have Mustang know he made her blush.

They were naked, and they were in her bed. It was getting harder to say she'd never wanted it, so Olivier distracted the thought by spreading her legs as wide as she could and grabbing Mustang by his hair, shoving him down until his breath was fanning between her legs. He was still for barely a moment before moving, pushing her legs over his shoulder and sliding his thumb against her clit. Olivier was hard pressed to keep quiet, every slight movement making her want to roll her hips toward his face. Mustang moved like he knew exactly where to touch her to make her moan, to make her writhe, and he did.

Those rumors about his reputation with women were suddenly starting to make a whole lot of sense.

When she felt his tongue flicker against her, running along her slit before actually pushing _in_ , she nearly lost it. Mustang rolled his thumb against her clit, keeping a constant, light pressure, and just as she opened her mouth to demand he stop fucking around and actually get to it, he rubbed hard, humming at the same time. Olivier went ramrod, thighs tensing and legs twitching and toes curling in a way she hadn't felt in years. She couldn't remember the last time she'd been so wet. Mustang looked so pleased when he pulled back, automatically looking up as though trying to discern her expression through the impenetrable darkness.

He was still hard, his cock bobbing against her thigh when he sat up. Olivier watched him, looked down at his crotch, and finally just rolled her eyes, lifting her legs and curling them around his waist. It was the least she could, after all, to return the favor.

"Don't waste my time, Mustang," she breathed, trying not to sound like she was panting, when the man didn't automatically move to fuck her. Mustang let out a strangled sound and grabbed his cock, squeezing, before shifting between her legs and searching, trying to angle himself. Olivier took pity on him, reaching between them to wrap her hand around where he was gripping his cock, guiding until the head was pushing inside her. He didn't waste time after that, sliding inside her in one smooth motion and sucking the breath straight out of her. She still felt so _hot_.

Mustang ground himself between her legs, rotating inside her before sliding in and out _just so._ Eyes clenched and head thrown back, she let him set the pace, let him have control for the moment so she could just enjoy the tremors of white heat pulsating from between her legs to the tips of her toes. When she finally went slack, her body melting into the mattress, he pulled out, grabbing himself and stroking himself over her body until he came, hot, wet ropes spilling over her stomach and thighs.

Olivier opened her eyes and watched him shift and collapse next to her, unable to feel irritated at the mess while she was still trying to catch her breath.

Once the air in the room returned to normal, Olivier shifted, sitting up on the edge of the bed and letting her feet hit the floor. Mustang spread across the mattress, the tips of his fingers brushing against her lower back as she stood, searching for her pants. "Thanks," he said.

She ignored the warmth curling in her stomach at the reverent tone of his voice and looked at the window. "Don't get the wrong idea," she said. Mustang snorted into the pillow. "I have needs as well," she explained.

"I've noticed," he said wryly. "You're leaving?"

"I have to get those papers to my attorney," she reminded him. "I'm leaving tomorrow to check in with North HQ and Briggs."

The room was quiet as she picked through the clothes on the floor and tugged on her pants, her shirt. The trip North wouldn't be a long one, not with everything that still needed done in Central, but it would be a breath of fresh air. She needed away.

When she opened the door, Mustang spoke from the bed. "Next time you have needs," he said, "feel free to come home."

Olivier didn't need to reply.


End file.
